At The Villa Rose

"Can't you see it? The old woman locking up her jewels in this

safe every night before the eyes of her maid or her companion, and

then, as soon as she was alone, taking them stealthily out of the

safe and hiding them in this secret place. But I tell you--this is

human. Yes, it is interesting just because it is so human. Then

picture to yourselves last night, the murderers opening this safe

and finding nothing--oh, but nothing!--and ransacking the room in

deadly haste, kicking up the rugs, forcing open the drawers, and

always finding nothing--nothing--nothing. Think of their rage,

their stupefaction, and finally their fear! They must go, and with

one pearl necklace, when they had hoped to reap a great fortune.

Oh, but this is interesting--yes, I tell you--I, who have seen

many strange things--this is interesting."

Perrichet returned with a canvas bag, into which Hanaud placed the

jewel-cases. He sealed the bag in the presence of the four men and

handed it to Besnard. He replaced the block of wood in the floor,

covered it over again with the rug, and rose to his feet.

"Listen!" he said, in a low voice, and with a gravity which

impressed them all. "There is something in this house which I do

not understand. I have told you so. I tell you something more now.

I am afraid--I am afraid." And the word startled his hearers like

a thunderclap, though it was breathed no louder than a whisper,

"Yes, my friends," he repeated, nodding his head, "terribly

afraid." And upon the others fell a discomfort, an awe, as though

something sinister and dangerous were present in the room and

close to them. So vivid was the feeling, instinctively they drew

nearer together. "Now, I warn you solemnly. There must be no

whisper that these jewels have been discovered; no newspaper must

publish a hint of it; no one must suspect that here in this room

we have found them. Is that understood?"

"Certainly," said the Commissaire.

"Yes," said Mr. Ricardo.

"To be sure, monsieur," said Perrichet.

As for Harry Wethermill, he made no reply. His burning eyes were

fixed upon Hanaud's face, and that was all. Hanaud, for his part,

asked for no reply from him. Indeed, he did not look towards Harry

Wethermill's face at all. Ricardo understood. Hanaud did not mean

to be deterred by the suffering written there.

He went down again into the little gay salon lit with flowers and

August sunlight, and stood beside the couch gazing at it with

troubled eyes. And, as he gazed, he closed his eyes and shivered.

He shivered like a man who has taken a sudden chill. Nothing in

all this morning's investigations, not even the rigid body beneath

the sheet, nor the strange discovery of the jewels, had so

impressed Ricardo. For there he had been confronted with facts,

definite and complete; here was a suggestion of unknown horrors, a

hint, not a fact, compelling the imagination to dark conjecture.

Hanaud shivered. That he had no idea why Hanaud shivered made the

action still more significant, still more alarming. And it was not

Ricardo alone who was moved by it. A voice of despair rang through

the room. The voice was Harry Wethermill's, and his face was ashy

white.